If Jonathan were doing all this for Marina, Marigold could almost understand it.
But Jonathan was doing it for Niamh.
First, he’d thrown down five hundred million dollars for Niamh.
Now he was onstage as some award presenter, holding Niamh’s hand and refusing to let go.
The more Marigold thought about it, the more exasperated she became, rolling her eyes in frustration.
What was so special about Niamh, anyway?
Sure, she was pretty, but aside from that, she didn’t have much going for her–no impressive family, no extraordinary background. She couldn’t hold a candle to someone like Ramona.
“One of these days I really ought to take him to St. Giles‘ Abbey, have Father Benedict see if he’s picked up some bad luck or something,” Marigold muttered under her breath.
Beside her, Hayes and Carlotta sat riveted, eyes fixed on the stage where Niamh and Jonathan’s hands were still entwined.
It wasn’t until Jonathan’s usually cold palm grew warm that he finally released her.
Niamh immediately pulled her hand back. As she turned to leave, she heard Jonathan’s voice drift after her, light as air:
“You only get to walk away if I let go first.”
Niamh paused mid–step and looked back.
Jonathan was smiling at her a smile equal parts seductive and dangerous, lips tipped in a wicked curve.
“If I decide not to let go…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he turned and strode off the stage in the opposite direction.
Niamh returned to her seat, unsettled by a turmoil she couldn’t quite name.
Just then, Michael handed her a napkin.
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She blinked, then understood. Taking it, she wiped her hand–the one Jonathan hat held for so long–then stood to toss the napkin into the trash,
Jonathan’s gaze followed her quietly, expression unreadable.
When he finally looked away, his eyes landed on Michael.
Michael raised his glass at him, eyes glinting coldly behind those gold–rimmed spectacles.
Jonathan answered with a silent, mocking smile, then took a sip of his wine.
“By the
way, I’ve heard Miss Ramona isn’t just a brilliant entrepreneur–she’s also the hottest racing driver in Coralis right now. They call her The Speed Queen!” Sprague chimed in, catching Marigold’s drift.
Jonathan has always admired accomplished women. Marigold’s words made it clear–Ramona was in another league compared to Niamh.
“Oh, please, call me Ramona,” Ramona interjected warmly.
Marigold’s face lit up at once. “Ramona… what a lovely name. And such an outstanding young lady…”
“Absolutely!” Sprague agreed enthusiastically. “She’s an incredible pianist, too. Practically Mrs. Quinn’s protégé.”
Carlotta just smiled politely. To Sprague and Marigold, that smile was modesty–surely she could have praised her foster daughter much more.
“Marina plays beautifully as well,” Jonathan remarked suddenly.
The lively atmosphere at the table froze in an instant.
“Marina is…?” Carlotta asked cautiously.
“Oh, just one of Jonathan’s high school classmates,” Marigold jumped in. “He used to say she played beautifully, but after she hurt her hand, she could never quite play with the same touch Jonathan remembered…”
“If you’d do us the honor, Mr. Quinn,” Sprague said, “perhaps you could join us at our home next time? I’d love to hear Ramona play–if she’s willing, of course.”
Sprague’s invitation, framed by his interest in piano, clearly set up the next gathering.
“Mr. Thomas, you’re too kind. If you’d like to hear me play, I’d be delighted,” Ramona replied, turning to Jonathan, her smile unchanged. “Perhaps you could invite your
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high school friend as well. We could perform a duet together.
